Authors: Tim Dorsey
The Next Day
Edge of the Everglades.
Isolated. Buzzing insects. Melting heat.
A cloud of chalky dust kicked up in the distance and drifted west behind an orange-and-green Plymouth.
The gravel road swung south. A lone metal building appeared.
“That’s the warehouse,” said Scooter.
Felicia gestured toward a smaller dirt road. “Go around back.”
Serge pulled up tight along the rear of the structure and parked beneath a ventilation fan frozen with rust. “You sure this is the place?”
Felicia grabbed a crowbar and opened her door. “We’ll soon find out.”
They walked around the front to a gravel lot. Coleman took a slug of Southern Comfort and passed it to his new buddies. Serge picked up a charred hubcap. “This used to be a nice car . . .”
“. . . And here’s one of the bumpers,” said Coleman.
“And a blast crater,” said Savage.
“Scooter,” said Felicia.
“What about him?” said Serge.
Felicia approached the warehouse entrance. “He blew it up.”
“Scooter blew up a Ferrari?”
“It was an accident,” said Scooter. “The thing just fired.”
Felicia jammed the iron bar in a latch and popped off the padlock.
“Coleman,” said Serge. “Stand lookout by the car. Just knock on the metal wall three times if you see anyone.”
They slid open a door on screeching tracks. Shafts of sunlight hit the floor.
Serge stopped in the middle of the empty building and looked around. “You probably didn’t know this about me, but I have a thing for women with crowbars. Actually not a thing. Crowbars just seem to come into play.”
Felicia wasn’t listening. She squatted down near the back.
“What is it?” asked Serge.
She stood and rubbed something between her fingers. Tiny pieces fluttered to the floor. “Sawdust.”
“I’m guessing they weren’t making cabinets.”
“That’s the spot,” said Scooter. “Where they were checking the crates. I told you.”
Felicia reached down again and picked up a scrap of plastic. “Packing shims from an RPG.”
“The one that malfunctioned,” said Scooter.
Felicia turned slowly and nodded. “Evangelista’s place.”
“Victor Evangelista?” said Serge.
“Ostensibly a respected businessman, highly connected politically. Rumors have been rampant for years, but nothing proven. And a lot of people who were doing the talking aren’t able to anymore.”
“I know his backstory,” said Serge.
“Then you know he’s arguably one of the biggest gunrunners in the hemisphere,” said Felicia. “According to the rumors, Victor’s been playing all sides for years. The generals, CIA, even the rebels.”
“That’s a short life expectancy.”
“Normally,” said Felicia. “Except everyone
wants
him to play all sides.”
“I don’t understand.”
“CIA fronts pay him to secretly arm the generals, because Congress won’t let ’em do it themselves. And both the generals and the CIA want him to arm the rebels.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Welcome to spy town.” Felicia lit a thin cigar. “The rebels are a joke. Unless our governments arm them, they’re worse than harmless, except when they come out of the mountains to beg for food or wash people’s windshields.”
Serge whistled. “If we armed all the windshield guys in Miami, you got an apocalyptic wasteland. Or more so.”
“They have no choice but to arm the rebels.”
“Why?”
“Because any regime bankrupt of even the slightest intelligent ideology needs to see enemies where there aren’t any.”
Serge nodded. “Glenn Beck.”
“These are volatile times for my country,” said Felicia. “It’s no secret that for decades, our government—make that the generals—has been on the take. First it was letting drug smugglers pass through. And now guns. Except the volume of the traffic is far more than the junta and rebels could use in ten lifetimes. It’s obvious that Costa Gorda has become a weapons pipeline and money-laundering haven for every tinhorn south of Mexico—and brings great shame to me and my homeland.”
“Shades of Noriega.” Serge placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. “But isn’t it good that at least the guns are moving on and not staying in your country.”
“No. It means more millions to skim for the generals, which means more power, which means they’re able to override any legitimate democratic vote of the people. That’s why the election of President Guzman worries so many.”
“He’s a good man,” said Serge.
“Incorruptible,” replied Felicia. “But he didn’t get elected without also being an expert politician. Everyone’s holding their breath over just how long his finesse can juggle the generals. Especially the generals.”
“And I thought our politics was rough.”
“I’m betting the military will eventually get too nervous and do something stupid, like a coup. Or a bullet.” Felicia dropped the cigar and crushed it out with her foot. “My country’s biggest hope is to expose the generals’ financial network to the world. Except that seemed impossible until now. We’ve got to follow this trail wherever it leads.”
“So you’re a patriot,” said Serge. “Even shorter life expectancy.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“You’re the one who mentioned a bullet.”
“But we’re way up here in Miami. What can happen?”
Suddenly a crash through a side window of the warehouse. Serge knocked Felicia to the ground and shielded her with his body. “Stay down!”
He pulled a .45 pistol from behind his back and twisted toward the window.
Someone was crawling through the small opening.
“Coleman!” yelled Serge. “What the hell are you doing in the window?”
“I think I’m stuck.” A grunt.
“You were supposed to stand lookout by the car.”
“I got lonely.”
Serge pointed the gun toward sunlight. “But the door’s wide open.”
A pause. “Serge?”
“Yes?”
“What am I doing in the window?”
“Talking to me.”
“Does Felicia have any weed?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m going to wiggle back out now,” said Coleman.
“Hope it works out for you.”
A grunting sound. Then Coleman thudded to the ground outside.
“Ow.”
Felicia got up and brushed off. “We probably need to get moving.”
“What was that?” asked Scooter.
“What was what?” said Serge.
“Thought I heard voices.”
“I hear them, too,” said Savage. “Does Coleman talk to himself?”
“Yes,” said Serge. “But it’s the language of children raised in the forest by animals.”
From the rear of the warehouse: three knocks on a metal wall.
From the front:
“Who left the door open?”
“Shit.” Felicia spun. “The back door! Hurry!”
They raced outside. Serge quietly eased the exit shut, just as the first backlit silhouettes slid the front doors the rest of the way open for a motorcade of white vans.
Felicia crouched behind the Plymouth. She looked up at the ventilation fan. Voices again:
“We don’t have all day. Get busy with those crates.”
“The planes are waiting. It’s a tight window.”
Serge whispered sideways. “Recognize them?”
“The first sounds like Victor,” said Felicia. “The second’s familiar, but I can’t place it . . . Where are you going?”
“Follow me.” Serge crawled on hands and knees to the corner of the building. He flattened himself and peeked around the side.
“See anything?” Felicia slithered forward in the dirt for her own look.
“No, just the back end of a white van . . . Get down!”
“What is it?”
A trail of dust coming up the gravel road. Five black SUVs. Serge aimed a small digital camera.
Click, click, click.
The dark vehicles pulled around the front of the warehouse and disappeared. From the ventilation fan: the sound of car doors slamming.
“You’re late! . . .”
“I know the second voice now,” said Felicia. “It’s that Lugar character. His Miami station must be the one supplying Evangelista.”
“I’m new to this business, but I think this is a good time to split.”
“Unless we want to follow them . . .”
Building 25
A dozen tables pushed together. Agents breaking stuff open with pliers and hammers and razor blades.
“Where’s Bamberg?” asked Oxnart.
The sound of a car outside. “There he is now,” said an agent twisting the head off a dashboard hula girl.
Bamberg came through the door and dumped a box on an empty table.
“That the last of it?” said Oxnart.
“Except for what Lugar got to first.”
Another agent cracked open a snow globe with a leaping dolphin. “What are we looking for anyway?”
“Maps, account numbers, microfilm. Who knows?” said the station chief. “Just keep looking.”
An ashtray shattered. “But we’re running out of time.”
Oxnart checked his watch. “Damn. We’re just going to have to pack it up and take it with us in the vehicles . . .”
Meanwhile:
“Step on it!” said Felicia. “You’re going to lose them!”
“I’m doing my best,” said Serge.
“How hard can it be to follow five black SUVs?”
Serge leaned over the steering wheel. “Except we’re in Miami.”
“So?”
“Miami drivers are a breed unto their own. Always distracted.” He uncapped a coffee thermos and chugged. “Quick on the gas and the horn. No separation between vehicles, every lane change a new adventure. The worst of both worlds: They race around as if they are really good, but they’re really bad, like if you taught a driver’s-ed class with NASCAR films.” He watched the first few droplets hit the windshield. “Oh, and worst of all, most of them have never seen snow.”
“But it’s not snow,” said Felicia. “It’s rain. And just a tiny shower.”
“That’s right.” Serge hit the wipers and took another slug from the thermos. “Rain is the last thing you want when you’re chasing someone in Miami. They drive shitty enough as it is, but on top of that, snow is a foreign concept, which means they never got the crash course in traction judgment for when pavement slickness turns less than ideal. And because of the land-sea temperature differential, Florida has regular afternoon rain showers. Nothing big, over in a jiff. But minutes later, all major intersections in Miami-Dade are clogged with debris from spectacular smash-ups. In Northern states, snow teaches drivers real fast about the Newtonian physics of large moving objects. I haven’t seen snow either, but I drink coffee, so the calculus of tire-grip ratio is intuitive to my body. It feels like mild electricity. Sometimes it’s pleasant, but mostly I’m ambivalent. Then you’re chasing someone in the rain through Miami, and your pursuit becomes this harrowing slalom through wrecked traffic like a disaster movie where everyone’s fleeing the city from an alien invasion, or a ridiculous change in weather that the scientist played by Dennis Quaid warned about but nobody paid attention.” Serge held the mouth of the thermos to his mouth. “Empty. Fuck it—”
Felicia grabbed the dashboard. “Serge!”
He slammed the brakes with both feet. Then deftly tapped the gas, steering into the skid and narrowly threading the intersection.
The centrifugal force threw Felicia against the passenger door. “Did you see that moron slide into the bus stop? He almost got us killed!”
Serge floored it and stuck his head out the window. “See some snow, motherfucker!”
They continued south as the sun began baking rain off the streets with a familiar smell. Serge skidded through another accident-littered intersection, head out the window again. “Traction, pussy!”
“Serge, pay attention.”
“To what?”
Bam
.
Slightly crumpled hood. Radiator steam. Felicia glared at Serge.
“Hey, he stopped short. This is what I’m talking about.”
“Thanks.” She stared out the window. “You lost them.”
“Not yet,” said Serge. “Back at the warehouse they mentioned airplanes, and from where we are, that narrows it considerably.”
Felicia pointed at increased steam blowing over the windshield. “But our car.”
“Just a paint scratch.” Serge threw it in reverse and looked over his shoulder. “Miami residents don’t know how to drive after accidents . . .”
A
rotund man in a custom Tommy Bahama shirt gazed skyward from the runway. A Coast Guard rescue helicopter took off for a rescue. Another idiot trying to cross the sixty miles to Bimini in a single-engine fishing boat.